


Potato

by Writing-Rammstein (orphan_account)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Childbirth, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 18:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20376328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Writing-Rammstein
Summary: For the prompt: 'could you please write a fic where Richard and the reader are with their newborn after a difficult labor, and Richard feels guilty about it, with lots of fluff?'Control freak can always control freak harder.





	Potato

“I could have done more.”

You open your heavy eyes against the darkness, and blink a few times. The lights in this hospital are dim, especially at this hour, but your boyfriend’s money has bought you your own room – the moonlight slices through the gap in your curtains across your bed, and he turns to look at you, starting as he realises you are awake. His eyes are so green, you think, quietly. Everything is black and white and grey, but his eyes, caught in that sliver of moonlight, are so green.

“Are you talking to yourself?” you mumble. You feel so groggy. The drugs they’ve had you on probably helped with that. But the pain is beginning to kick in, a little, mostly between the thighs. “Mmm…” You shift, and he reaches out to get you comfortable – your head turns as if pulled by a string, and you see the tiny form resting in the cot next to your bed.

“She looks like an alien,” you comment – perhaps a little too honest, but you don’t say it out of spite. The love that overwhelms you is utterly terrifying, in part because you know how hormonal it is, but also because you aren’t holding her, and you feel as if you should be. “I made that.”

“We made that,” he said, quietly, and you hear the blame for himself. “I should have done more.”

“Richard, I had to…” You shake your head, and it aches. “Ah… I was the one pushing a baby out. You did fine. You held my hand, you… you made decisions.” _Ones he shouldn’t have had to have made_, in some cases, but it all worked out, didn’t it? You didn’t lose too much blood. Well, you don’t really know, do you, you’re off your head on pain medication. You’re sure that you’ll look back on this when your head clears and be a little more concerned, but right now, all that matters is that tiny potato in the cot next to you.

“I tried.” He kisses your hand, and you look back at him, feeling love burn in your stomach. You’re going to assume that’s love, for now. “I tried but… I needed to try harder, you know?”

“Richard. She’s here, she’s beautiful, and we’re both…” You yawn widely. “F-fine. Achy, and exhausted, and…” You shift, wincing, and he looks at you in terror. “Fine.”

“I’ll go and get you a nurse. For painkillers, and then you must sleep more. I am sorry I woke you.” He stands up, quietly making his way out, but it’s not quiet enough – as the door closes, you hear a faint grizzle, and push yourself up a little, gritting your teeth.

“C’mere…” You lift her out of the bed very carefully – they say not to, but you’ll be damned if you’ll let her cry alone. They can restitch you. That’s probably not a wise thought process. She grizzles again, and you marvel at how tiny she is for so much trouble you went through. Her hands are so delicate and tiny, and her feet – you feel like a cliché, but you can’t get over her teeny, tiny toes. “Are you hungry? Mummy will feed you…”

“Hello, new mum!” The nurse’s voice is delicate, and you turn as she stands in the doorway. “Is she crying?”

“A little,” you say, politely, because that’s a very silly question for anyone with ears, but you assume they’re just trying to be nice. “Is it safe to feed her? I know I’m on medication…”

“Don’t worry, very few medications actually transfer through your breast milk. So you absolutely can, but to keep it safe, we’re going to just give you some paracetemol and if the pain gets worse we’ll talk about alternate arrangements. Pass little one to Dad for a moment, I just want to take a few readings as I give you these, nothing scary…”

You hand your little girl to Richard, who looks down at her with a look that could’ve severed you at the knees – his eyes are filled with love and light and wonder, not a moment of that mask of diva-dom he keeps up, and, whilst she doesn’t stop, her grizzling lightens up for a moment. He starts speaking gently, at the same time as the nurse explains what she’s doing – temperature, dehydration, blood test etc. – but you realise he’s singing faintly to her in German as you watch.

“…and here, some pain medication. Now, try to sleep, okay, but if you still feel bad in a few hours, call us back,” she smiles, and you nod. “Okay, Dad, let’s hand little one back to Mum…!” You take her, and her grizzling increases again. Probably because she knows she’s getting fed, but then, as you cradle her for just a moment longer, her little scrunchy eyes open. They’re the blue of all newborns, but, around the pupil, you can see the faint strands of gold and green.


End file.
